Please, God, not my stomach, not that. I'll lose an arm, a leg, but not in my gut. Seen too many die. He tried to tear at his jacket, to open it up, but hands were restraining him.
"Let me up!" he gasped, and they released him.
His body was still numb; he couldn't tell where he was hit, how bad.
He sat up and looked down at his body.
It was the leg and when he saw it was when the pain hit.
Strange how that worked, he thought His right leg was dangling off at an angle, shreds of muscle and ligaments all that was holding it to his body. A pool of blood was spreading out from the torn stump.
He took a deep breath.
'Tourniquet!"
Already a doctor from his headquarters staff was up by his side, leather bag opened, hands trembling. "Get a tourniquet on that, damn you," he gasped. "I am, sir."
The man wrapped the strap around his leg above the knee and started to turn the screw that would tighten it He felt the strap bite in, dig deeper; he gasped. Damn it. It hurt almost as much as the wound. Still deeper. His fingers dug into the ground, he gritted his teeth, eyes focused on his life blood still pouring out. The pulsing stream lowered, dribbled, became a slow, oozing flow.
He looked over at the doctor.
"Sir, I've stopped it for the moment, but I've got to get you back, tie off the arteries." "And my leg?"
The doctor looked down at the torn remnant and then back at Dan, shaking his head.
'Take it off now, damn it. There doesn't seem to be much left to it anyhow."
"Would you want me to give you ether first, sir?"
Dan looked up at the ever-growing crowd gathered around him, hearing distant shouts that "the general" was down.
No, he was Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac. As he looked at his men, he knew that for them, there was still one more duty to perform this day, whether this day would be one of victory or defeat. He would do it with the style he had always shown.
"Anyone got a good cigar?" he gasped.
The private who was closest to him fished into his breast pocket and with a trembling hand drew out a thick Havana. A shot screamed in, bursting overhead. All ducked for a second, but no one was hit. The private pulled out a match. Dan bit off the end of the cigar, spat out the stub, and nodded. The private struck the match and Dan puffed the cigar to life. "Who are you, Private?"
"Paul Hawkinson, sir. Seventy-third New York, been with you since the Peninsula, sir."
"Well, Private. You're Sergeant Hawkinson now, and when this is over, come and see me, and a box of good Cubans is yours."
Hawkinson grinned and reached out, patting Dan on the shoulder.
"That's the spirit, sir. The old Third is with you this day." Dan nodded and looked back at the surgeon. "Cut away and be quick about it." "The ether?"
"I heard that stuff explodes around a lit cigar. Now cut away, damn you!"
Dan made it a point of not lying back, of not looking away. The surgery was over in seconds, a few quick slashes with a scalpel, a few strokes of the saw to sever a bundle of ligaments. Strangely, he didn't feel a thing. The men around him watched it, gazes shifting from the cutting to Dan's face and back again.
"Hawkinson, find a stretcher and be quick about it!"
"My ambulance!" the doctor shouted, and left with Hawkinson.
Dan sat quiet, smoking the cigar, holding his stump up in the air, bracing it with his hands.
He knew he should think, should pass orders as to what must be done next. Shock was taking hold, he had to focus, and his focus was now on but one more gesture.
Hawkinson and the doctor came back, carrying the stretcher. Eager hands reached out, lifting him off the ground, bringing him up, turning to head for the ambulance.
"No, damn it, stop!"
"I'm taking you back to the rear, General," the surgeon shouted, ducking low as yet another shot winged overhead. "No. Now up on your shoulders, boys, on your shoulders."
"General, are you mad?"
It was Birney, dislocated arm cradled against his side.
"Eight of you, on your shoulders with the stretcher. I want the boys to see me this day!"
The surgeon started to cry out in protest, but Hawkinson shouldered him aside.
"Goddamn it, you heard the general, now who's with me!"
Men pushed in, shouting, eager for this moment, and together they hoisted Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac, up high, struts of the stretcher resting on their shoulders, the general above them, cigar clenched between his teeth, sitting up, stump of his leg held high. At the sight of him a ragged cheer went up.
"Now down the volley line!" Dan cried. "Walk me down the volley line."
The strange procession set off, moving in behind the fighting men of his old Second Division, and at the sight of his approach the men looked up, fell silent, those on the ground coming to their feet; hats came off, men began to shout.
"Give it to 'em, boys!" he screamed hysterically. "Remember you're the Army of the Potomac! Now charge and give it to 'em! Remember you are the Army of the Potomac ..."
"General Sickles, your orders!"
It was Birney, nursing his dislocated arm, running alongside the stretcher. Dan looked down at him but his eyes were wild, filled with battle lust, this final march of a warrior to some Valhalla, like departure from the world of mere mortals.
Birney fell back, watching as his old general was carried off, disappearing into the smoke. Around him men were on their feet, shouting madly, clenched rifles raised, and then, incredibly, they started down the slope, heading toward the enemy guns.
"For God's sake, General, who is in charge here now?" Birney saw that it was Ely Parker by his side. "Colonel?"
"I heard that report. You are being flanked. You must get this army out. Who is in charge here now?"
Birney drew his sword with his one good hand.
"I don't know, Colonel," he gasped. "I don't know. But I can tell you this: when it's over, tell General Grant we died game. We set the stage for what he will do after we're gone. Now, Colonel, get the hell out of here."
Birney, sword raised high, disappeared into the smoke, following his men.
On the Banks of Chesapeake Bay,
near Gunpowder, Maryland
August 20,1863 3:30 P.M.
“The Chesapeake Bay, sir," Walter Taylor announced.
Lee nodded, lowering his head. Numbed by exhaustion, he struggled to get his right foot out of the stirrup. Traveler, trembling and lathered in sweat, remained still. An orderly ran over and ever so gently helped Lee to swing his leg up over the saddle and dismount.
For a moment he had no feeling in his legs, the sensation frightening. Forgetting all sense of protocol and decorum, he unbuttoned his uniform jacket and, when the first cooling breath of air hit his sweat-soaked body, he almost staggered, head light, nausea taking him. Embarrassed, he tried to turn away, the world spinning as he doubled over and vomited.
Walter was by his side, holding him by the shoulder, shouting for someone to fetch towels, something cool to drink. He tried to wave them off. He slowly righted himself.
"War is for young men, Walter. I'm getting rather old for this."
"Sir, many a man half your age has collapsed today," Walter offered.
Lee felt weak, frighteningly weak, fearful for a moment that he might faint.
Walter and two others led him up to a wide, open porch, shaded from the glaring afternoon sun. The porch was packed with men, most of them wounded, Yankee prisoners who looked at him wide-eyed, a few coming to their feet, respectfully saluting. He was ashamed that they should see him thus, but his body no longer cared about propriety.
A woman came hurrying out of the house, bearing an earthenware pitcher, cool droplets coursing down its side, a white towel in her other hand. Her ivory-colored day dress was deeply stained with blood. It was obvious she had been tending to the wounded when he rode up.
"Mada
m, I thank you for the charity you've shown to these men," he gasped as they guided him to a wicker rocking chair. Walter had his coat off and they sat Lee down. The woman upended the pitcher, soaking the towel, then ever so gently wiping his face and the back of his neck. The cool water hit him like a shock, and for a second he feared he would vomit again, something that would have mortified him. He leaned over, gagged, but fought it back.
Another woman was by his side, a colored servant, kneeling down, holding an earthen mug.
"Cool water, General. Just the thing you need; now drink it slowly, sir."
She held the mug as he took it with trembling hands, slowly swallowing, the servant looking at him, an older woman, his age, perhaps older, smiling, nodding her approval, whispering as if he were an ill child taking his medicine. He drained it and she took the mug.
"Now you let that settle for a moment and if it comes back up, I don't want you to feel no shame. It'll take the heat out of your body."
"Thank you, thank you," he gasped.
She smiled, refilled the mug, and offered it to him even as the mistress of the house continued to wipe his neck and brow.
"Now you can hold your own mug, sir, but sip slowly; you'll be all right in a few minutes."
She stood up and scurried off, going back to a Yankee lying on the porch, kneeling down to wipe his brow with the hem of her dress, her face filled with the same beatific compassion she had shown him.
His staff stood around him in respectful silence. He waited a moment, another spasm of nausea hitting him, not as strong as the last. He fought it down without gagging.
He felt something cool running down his back, and looked up at the woman; she was slowly pouring a trickle of water down his back.
"Thank you, ma'am; your kindness is a blessing."
She nodded, eyes lowering.
"I am sorry, ma'am, if we have inconvenienced you this day."
She started to turn away, then hesitated.
"I have a hundred dead, dying, and wounded in my house, sir," she announced, her voice beginning to break. "Is that an inconvenience? There are two boys I don't even know dying in my daughter's bed."
He could not reply.
"For God's sake, General, when will this madness end? Is it worth it anymore?"
She stood frozen, as if horrified by her outburst. The pitcher dropped, shattering on the porch floor. All were silent, and she looked around at the Confederate staff, the Union wounded.
"Put an end to this!" she screamed, and then, gathering up her apron to cover her face, she fled back into the house. Her black servant watched her go, gazed upon Lee for a moment, then turned back to the Union soldier she was tending, lifting his head up, cradling it in her lap, and, leaning over, she began to whisper in his ear. And Lee could hear, ever so faintly, her words
'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...."
He lowered his head again, filled with remorse, exhaustion, even a sense of loathing for all he had seen this day, this day of yet another victory. He finally raised his head and looked down toward the Chesapeake.
Thousands of Yankee soldiers were swarming down into the bay, the docks at a small port filled with them. Along the low heights, scattered commands were coming up from his own army. He had lost sight of Beauregard long ago, within the first ten minutes after the attack had swept into the flank of their Fifth Corps, but he knew that the man had proven himself today, driving with relentless passion, as if eager to assure beyond all doubt his ability to lead, even when General Lee commanded the field.
An hour after they had struck the flank, the entire Union formation began to give way, and then just collapsed. The shock of the surprise blow had been part of it. He knew that the weather had played to him as well. The heat was killing. Chances were that when the tally was finally done, maybe one out of five of the dead would be found with no mark upon them. But in that moment, when some believed victory was near, and others faced defeat, exhaustion created by the heat would drive those filling with despair over the edge.
The Fifth had broken, but their disengagement had been masterful, their General Sykes yet again guiding his men out of the trap, pushing relentlessly back northward, back toward the shelter of Perryville and the gunboats on the Susquehanna.
As for their Third and Sixth Corps, they were into the sack now, swarming down to the broad, open bay. Many were casting aside their guns, if for no other reason than to dive into the tepid waters of the bay to seek some relief.
Someone had already ordered up a rescue force. Dozens of small boats were coming into the dock to take off the broken Army of the Potomac; a lone gunboat was visible, coming down the bay.
He sat back in the chair, saying nothing, watching the spectacle as his men, all formation gone, pushed down toward the water.
He saw General Longstreet riding up and breathed a sigh of relief. Longstreet dismounted and his face was filled with concern as he stepped on to the porch and took his hat off.
"Are you all right, sir?" Longstreet gasped.
"Just the heat, General. I'll be fine in a minute."
"Sir, you are staying put right here for the rest of the day," Walter Taylor announced forcefully. "I know your surgeon will order it once he comes up."
Lee nodded his head in agreement As he had ordered Longstreet to protect himself, he knew he should do the same at this moment.
"Sir, I can see to what is left," Longstreet said.
Lee nodded.
"What did it cost, Pete?" Lee whispered.
Longstreet lowered his head, looking over at the Yankee soldiers on the porch only feet away from them.
"Go on, General. They are our guests for the moment; talk freely."
Longstreet found that, as he spoke, he could not look at Lee; instead his gaze was fixed on those who had faced them this day.
"They fought us with reckless courage, sir. I've never seen anything like it before. Word is that General Sickles lost a leg. We might capture him, I'm not sure.
"I cannot speak for what you saw against the Fifth Corps, sir. But their Third and Sixth, when they knew they were trapped, fought it out to the end. I think we'll bag most of them down there," and he pointed to the bay, "but, General, it was a bloody, costly fight. We might have lost another five, maybe eight thousand more than yesterday."
Lee lowered his head, the shock of his losses a visceral blow. Why did each victory have to be so costly? Combined with yesterday, maybe ten thousand or more gone from the ranks.
He sighed, wiping his face, and then leaned back, grateful for the cooling water that had been poured down his neck and back.
He looked over at the wounded Yankees, who gazed at him, some warily, some with hatred, some with respect. A major, catching his eye, stood up and formally saluted. The man grimaced with pain, clutching his side with a bloody rag. Lee rose up and walked over to him, returning the salute.
"General Lee?" the major asked weakly.
"Yes, I am he."
The major nodded, saying nothing.
"You are sorely hurt, sir," Lee said. "Please sit down; my medical staff will see to you shortly."
"I'll be fine," the major whispered. "I want my men taken care of first. Just assure me of that, sir; it is all that I ask."
"Major, I am sorry for your injury. I will pray that you return safely to your family."
"Thank you, General. Just take care of my men. They're good soldiers."
"I know they are good soldiers; you should be proud of them." He said the words loud enough so that all on the porch could hear.
"I regret the divisions that force us to fight each other now. I hope, sir, when this is over, we can again be friends."
The major swayed slightly, then stiffened.
"Major, rest assured your men will be treated with honor. As quickly as arrangements can be made, all of the men of the Army of the Potomac, wounded or not, will be paroled and exchanged. Till then, the kind owner of this house and my medical staff will look after
you."
"Thank you, sir," the major whispered. An elderly sergeant stood up and came to the major's left, protectively putting an arm around his side, and helping him to sit back down.
Lee turned away and walked back to Pete, motioning him to fall in by his side.
"We can't handle twenty thousand or more prisoners," Lee said softly. "I can't detail more men off as escorts to take them South. I'll have Walter find a printing press, we'll run off parole notes, and let those people go. The exchange can free thousands of our boys now held up in Elmira and Camp Douglas."
Pete nodded in agreement.
"Unfortunately, the men we will get back with the exchange will not be fit to fight immediately."
"I don't care about that, though I wish it were different. We must make the gesture; besides, it is the only thing we can do now."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you for your efforts this day, General Longstreet. This time you were the anvil, and you've gained us another brilliant victory."
"The cost though," Pete sighed. "I am leaning toward relieving George of his command. He badly mishandled his division yesterday."
"General Longstreet, we walk a fine line, at times, between daring and foolhardiness. We praise when it works; we blame when it doesn't. Maybe it could be said that General Pickett's actions emboldened Sickles to press forward into the trap, maybe not. I suspect that will be yet another issue historians will argue about long after we are gone. I'll review the issue later when we have time, look at the ground, talk to Armistead and the other brigade commanders, then decide."
"Yes, sir."
"It is Grant now that we must think of." Pete smiled.
"This will put a twist in his tail."
"Yes, but the question is, How will he jump now that his tail is twisted?"
"I think, sir, he just might hold north of the Susquehanna. He's lost maybe upward of a third of his total available field force this day. I think the assumption was fair that he planned to move in a concentrated manner: Sickles along the Chesapeake to hold our attention while he crossed over the South Mountains and sought to engage us. After this he might very well hold back till spring to build up sufficient force."
Lee looked across at the bay. A heavy line of his infantry were sweeping down toward the docks. Rifle fire snapped and rolled as last-ditch survivors from the Union side turned and continued to fight. A battery of artillery clattered past the plantation, moving at a swift canter, horses panting, lathered in sweat, deploying out into a field a hundred yards away, preparing to shell the harbor. The killing was still going on. Even in its death agony the Army of the Potomac was still kicking back; a shell winged in to detonate over the heads of the deploying battery; several gunners dropped.
Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 Page 47
